Acid
by Drown Me In Blue
Summary: Orihime had once spoken of him as the emerald-eyed Arrancar, but Ichigo could never think of him that way. Ulquiorra's eyes were not the green of emeralds. They were the green of poison, or acid - and like poison, they had infected him.


**Pairing: **_Ulquiorra__ Schiffer x Ichigo Kurosaki_

**Music:** Inside of Me_, by Dead by Sunrise_

**Word count:** ~ 1900

**Rating:** T

**A/N: **_This one is for _**Ms. Pao Pao**_, who left lovely reviews, and asked for this pairing twice. I hope I did it justice. _^.^

* * *

_**Prompt 25: **__Acid_

* * *

Orihime had once spoken of him as the emerald-eyed Arrancar, but Ichigo could never think of him that way. Ulquiorra's eyes were not the green of emeralds. They were the green of poison. And, like a particularly insidious poison, they infected him, swarmed through his blood, and settled deep in his chest where no medication or _kido_ chant could touch them.

Even now, six years after the end of everything, those green eyes still haunted him.

Waraji clacked and crunched as Ichigo made his way through the small white stones and soft white sands of Hueco Mundo. He was tired, almost too tired to stay upright, and especially tired of running—but not yet tired enough to banish the Hollow mask he wore. After more than five years of running from Soul Society, he had run out of hiding places. After the war had ended, and Aizen had been confined to whatever stygian depth the 46 had sentenced the traitor to, the leaders of Soul Society had turned their attention to the substitute shinigami who had fought alongside them for so long.

With his powers gone, they had considered him an enemy easily removed.

One more threat disposed of.

Of course, they hadn't counted, as Urahara always did, on his singular ability to overcome life-and-death situations. His powers had come flooding back as Byakuya—and really, who else would they have sent for such a task?—struck the second blow.

He had run. Without hesitation, and without pausing to find allies or enemies, and leaving behind everyone he had thought he knew. Urahara had found him in Tokyo three weeks later, cold, hungry, and hunted, and had given him all the information Rukia and Renji had been able to pass on. The 46 had declared him an enemy of Aizen's level, and all captains had been ordered to kill him on sight. But, Urahara offered cheerfully, the council was coming up against a surprising number of dead ends. Even some of the more obedient captains were being hesitant and their results were unforthcoming. Knowing that gave Ichigo hope enough to keep running.

Hope enough to run for almost six years.

The crumbled ruin of Las Noches loomed against the swollen moon as Ichigo climbed over the tumbled wall and made his way towards the one-time throne room. Long shadows flanked him, trailing his steps across the smooth floor, even as he wavered and fell, going down to one knee in front of the white throne. It was an ironic mockery of the war, when Aizen would have given so much to have him in this position. And now, of all the things that Ichigo had faced, all the things he had beaten, it was his one-time allies who had driven him to his knees. His allies, his bone-deep weariness, and the memory of eyes like absinthe and deep green grass.

He still didn't know why he had come here, of all places. Certainly, there was only the slimmest chance of Soul Society finding him here, because this _was_ the very last place he would ever go. It was dangerous, even though he was closer to his Hollow now than ever before. Hollows still roamed Hueco Mundo in great number, and he was too tired to put up much of a fight to anything. Even now, darkness was wavering across his vision, and his sight was coming back a little more slowly each time. Breath rasped in his lungs, and from the wetness spreading across his torso, Ichigo guessed that he must have reopened his wounds from the last battle with the Secret Remote Squad. With a sigh, he released his grip on the sheer willpower that was holding him up, letting himself crumple to the ground. Funny, he acknowledged, that after all the captains and monsters and would-be gods, it was the tiny captain, with her ongoing hatred of him, who resulted in his death.

As darkness settled firmly over his eyes, Ichigo thought he heard the faintest sound of footsteps coming closer.

* * *

The smell of blood was heavy on the wind.

Ulquiorra stood in the doorway of the throne room, staring down at the crumpled form in the center. Crimson pooled around him, black in the moonlight, soaking into the tattered remains of his _shihakusho_. A bone-whit and scarlet mask lay beside his head, its empty eyes staring up at the shattered ceiling. But—and this confused Ulquiorra more than anything else—there was neither the smell nor feel of Hollow reiatsu around the wounds. Moreover, the human boy looked weary in a way no battle could have left him.

It was madness, Ulquiorra knew. That was what drew him over the smooth floor he had not crossed since his Lord's fall. Madness was what made him lift the human from his crumpled heap and carry him swiftly—had he always been this light? This slender? Almost sickly thin, as though with a wasting fever?—and silently to the room Ulquiorra had appropriated for his own use. After all, there could be no other reason for the gentleness with which he laid the boy down. No other reason for the care with which he stripped the shinigami—and was he even a shinigami anymore?—of his rags and dressed the wounds he found there.

Madness was all it could be.

It was certainly was not a desire to see the honey-and-topaz eyes that remained worryingly closed.

It seemed as though ages beyond count had passed since the fall of Aizen, though Ulquiorra knew it hadn't really been that long at all. But he had been adrift since then, lost and unsure of his place in this new world without constraints or allegiance owed. There were no orders, was no loyalty that had to be paid, no leader to follow. Ulquiorra felt similar to a marionette that had suddenly had its strings severed mid-step. He was lacking focus, lacking a solid center or anything with which to ground himself.

Now, staring down at the shinigami on his bed, golden skin all but glowing against the stark white sheets, Ulquiorra wondered why he felt steady for the first time in six years.

* * *

Ichigo woke up feeling warm, in a way he had not in years. The last thing that he remembered was creeping darkness, encroaching death—and thinking that wouldn't the Soul Society be pleased as punch when he showed up among the other lost souls in Rukongai, without them having to lift a finger—but now, all of that had disappeared. If he had known that this was death, he might have given in to it earlier.

Slowly, Ichigo opened his eyes and stared upwards. Instead of the shattered ceiling of the throne room, there was a dark expanse of unbroken stone above him. The bed beneath him was a surprise, as was the thick blanket that kept away Hueco Mundo's chill. His injuries had even been wrapped, and he could no longer feel the tacky thickness of dried blood on his skin.

For the first time since he had started running, someone had taken care of him.

"You are awake, shinigami."

It was an empty, emotionless voice, one that he had never thought to hear again. But, even now, even here, he couldn't find it in himself to feel surprise as he turned his head to look at the former Espada.

"Ulquiorra."

Despite himself, Ulquiorra felt something freeze in his throat at the sight of those calm eyes, nevertheless burning with amber fire. Unable to do anything else, he simply nodded and stepped closer, until he stood right over the shinigami. "Your wounds are severe. Do not attempt to rise."

To his great surprise—for he had been imagining the reaction of the brash, hotheaded boy he remembered—Ichigo nodded in acceptance and let his head fall back to the pillow. "I don't think I could, anyway. Thank you for helping me."

The very strangest thing was that he actually seemed to mean the words. Ulquiorra's eyes widened minutely in surprise. "You do not care that we are enemies?"

For some reason, that made the shinigami laugh, though it was not a happy sound, and obviously caused him physical pain. He shook his head. "Maybe once. Not anymore."

And with that, his breathing settled into a gentle rhythm, and Ulquiorra was left to his own, strange thoughts as his one-time enemy drifted to sleep in front of him.

* * *

It was a strange connection that they had, in the days that followed. Ulquiorra was as taciturn as ever, rarely speaking more than ten words at a time. But, after so long running alone, Ichigo thought even that was something to be celebrated. The former Espada also stayed near him more often than not, and his company—though silent—was a balm to all the years of loneliness that had come before their meeting.

Of course, Ichigo reflected wryly, if someone had once told him he would one day seek solace and safety with his enemy—and especially _this_ enemy—while escaping from Soul Society, he would have laughed himself half-sick. Now, he was hard-pressed to recall even the faintest edge of that old enmity. Instead, they spent their days either in Ulquiorra's room—while Ichigo was recovering—or picking through the rubble of Las Noches to repair what they could.

Ulquiorra had, he said, been doing so ever since he had inexplicably woken up among the white sands some time after Aizen's defeat. Thankfully, the stone was repaired easily enough, if they found if they found the correct pieces and returned them to their rightful places. Within the first week of Ichigo's mobility, they had finished the surprisingly large library and several of the rooms the rest of the Espada had used. Ichigo wasn't exactly certain _why_, but he never said anything. In the same way, Ulquiorra never asked why he had appeared here, of all places, battered and bleeding and as close to hopeless as he had ever really come. By unspoken agreement, they also never mentioned the past. It was an odd peace, but satisfying.

Satisfying, especially, Ichigo thought, in the evenings. Their nights—the time that was usually set aside for sleeping, as Hueco Mundo had no day—were now often spent in the reorganized library, near the large windows, simply taking pleasure in each other's company. They read in silence, or slept, or just sat quietly as the ever-bright moon moved across the dark sky. It was closeness, and kinship, and connection. Neither quite understood, but they accepted. And with that acceptance came an intimacy and understanding that neither tried to resist.

There was no need for words.

Not between them. Not about them. Not for anything else.

Contentment, Ichigo thought, leaning into the steely strength and surprising warmth of the Arrancar beside him, as the moon drifted above the ruins. And he smiled, just a little bit.

He had not felt this contentment before.

He wouldn't give it up for anything.

Not for anyone.

And Ulquiorra looked up from his book, following Ichigo's gaze, and the poison-absinthe-acid-grass of his green eyes softened slightly. In anyone else, it would have been a smile.

"It will be a good home," he said simply, and Ichigo couldn't have agreed more.


End file.
